Sick Boy
by ForeverMATT
Summary: Matt doesn't make a sound -he almost never does.- His eyes are wide and his lips are parted; he's a panting mess, and we've only just begun to play... -Mello's POV -DEADICATED TO: Chase Mihael Keehl


**Title:** Sick Boy

**Summary:** Matt doesn't make a sound -he almost never does.- His eyes are wide and his lips are parted; he's a panting mess, and we've only just begun to play... -Mello's POV -DEADICATED TO: Chase Mihael Keehl

**Disclaimer:** I don't own DN or anything referenced. I am a vulgar little fan boy with a naughty obsession.

**Author's Note:** Yep, I'm sick and had to write this. It's for MY Mello, aka _Chase Mihael Keehl_. Why? Because I wanted to write something nice for him, and... unfortunately, I'm a sick, sick boy.

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…

Blood on my hands and crusted in my fingernails, I'm still coming off the high that comes natural from working as a mediator between the living and the soon to be fuckin' dead. Adrenaline pumping through my veins like ice, chilling me from the inside out, I find myself home.

It's three in the fuckin' morning, and I'm just getting home, muddy footprints tattling my whereabouts and have-beens.

Walking further in, boots clunking, and keys jingling mid-drop onto the table, I absentmindedly listen for the traditional sounds of home.

I listen for videogame music and a string of jeers coming from my life partner. I listen for the sounds of potato chip bags ruffling or soda cans being smashed. I listen for... anything but what I end up hearing.

I hear nothing. And that nothing is greatly contrasted with a sudden scream. Fearing the worst, my hand is on my gun, fingers at the ready, safety nonexistent, and I'm hugging the walls on my way to the source, warily investigating what very well could be some form of murder or gang-related activity.

But as I enter the living room, my guard is let down and my gun is lowered. The source was naught but a horror film playing on a flat screen tv. And Matt, my life partner, he's on the couch, eyes closed and hand tucked discreetly into the waistband of his sweatpants.

A second glance reveals a slight movement.

And I quickly realize that he's jackin' his shit to a horror flick, and he's not even conscious.

Strange? Hardly. I've stumbled upon worse before.

For instance, there was a time when Matt had an electric burner plugged in... and several boxes of wax cubes, and he'd melted all the wax and had his hand dipped into the hot lava-esque liquid.

When I asked what dafuq he was doing, he said: "Nothin'."

Granted, I didn't respond, he didn't stop playing in the melted wax either. It coated his hand and he let the excess drip onto his bare chest, cooling almost instantly and drying on his flesh; a clear stain that marred him until he would peel it off and repeat the process. – I don't know if he got off on it, or if he was just exceedingly bored, but somehow, I guess we ignored the matter altogether.

Then there was the numerous one-sided telephone calls I'd walked in on.

Example(s):

_"Fuck yeah, I want bacon with my Nachos!"_

_"Yes, Uncle Remus, I know the catfish are huge."_

_"No, no, no! Fran needs the Sagittarius Bow in the International game; you cannot give her a fuckin' spear, regardless of stats! Mages don't do close combat!"_

_"Brady Games are shit, you loser."_

_"I already told you, I lost my toothbrush; I don't know where it is! The last time I saw it, I threw it at a spider and ran."_

_"Did you know that the average quarter has approximately 129 ridges? If you don't believe me, go count, bitch. Prove me wrong, I dare you."_

_"I know a guy, who knew a guy, but that guy was also a clown, and he said that he drove a Dodge. -This is the part where you laugh. Seriously, that was the punch line of my favorite joke, now laugh already."_

_"And, there was this polar bear, but he was secretly Jesus! And, like, he was talking to this dragon about the pending fate of the earth, and...-"_

And that's not the worst of it. Coming off work, I never know what situation I'm going to find Matt in.

I once walked in to find his playstation smashed, tv turned to static, and him nowhere in the mix. A quick look around led me to finding him curled up under the bed, and when I asked what he was doing, he said: "Fuck, Mells, I'm so scared. There was a baby alligator in the house!"

And of course, I didn't believe him. In fact, I yelled at him, telling him that if there _was _a baby gator in the house, hiding under the bed was not going to keep him safe. I coaxed him out and into my arms, and he seemed to calm down... until he shrieked, jerked from my arms, and leapt onto the bed where he crouched, frozen in fear.

Then (ready for the best/worst part?), I looked at what had startled him, only to see a frog. I mean, yes it was a pretty big frog that had no right to be inside, but it's not a fuckin' gator or anything, and MY Matty was being overly dramatic.

But I love him, and I always will.

And even now, with his erection visible as his hips move to allow him to fuck the hollow of his hand while a gore-fest plays a few feet away, I can't bring myself to be bothered by his oddities.

It's endearing, like when we were kids and he used to bait mouse traps with his bare toes for fun.

Such a weirdo, but he's MY weirdo. And from what I can tell, he's getting nowhere fast with his playtime.

Lucky for him, I'm just perturbed enough to help. I casually slip out of my vest and slide easily onto the couch, straddling the gamer and guiding his naughty hand away from the prize I intend to win. I bring his fingers to my mouth and give a long slow lick to the digits, teeth closing around the tip of one before I take it in, all the way down to the knuckle before the redhead stirs, eyes blinking away the bleariness of sleep and a curious sound escaping his lips.

Releasing his fingers, I say "G'morning, sunshine." And he smiles, sits up and removes the offending shirt that had censored his torso and branded him a convict. Seeing him shirtless, a mass of scars and burns, nipples pert and chest flushed already, I couldn't wait to get to the rest of him.

My fingertips found and traced the scarring -because he was scarred; in some places, his flesh didn't even look human, and I have only myself to thank for that -, nails biting into the raw wounds that were not covered by gauze and medical tape. And my life partner, Matt, he smiled and arched into my sadistic touch, crying out at the slightest attention, drawing out my carnivorous side and tempting me further.

Digging my hand into the sofa cushions, I produced a collar and a leash, knowing that this masochistic redhead would get off to just about any kink or fetish I brought into his life. And, strapping it on him and making it as tight as possible, I paid close attention to the light in his eyes as his breathing became restricted, watching the flicker of consciousness.

He never fought when I wanted to play. He never said no. He just accepted and _enjoyed_ it. I'll never understand how he liked the abuse; if anyone ever laid a rough hand on me, they'd get my foot up their ass -and that's IF I was generous enough not to lay some lead into their skull.

But this is what Matt liked. He got off on it, the little masochist.

And this is one of the many things I love about him.

The most adventurous and stupid thing he and I have ever done, well... let's just say it was months and months ago, and he still limps sometimes, but only because of what I had to do to make the fantasy work. (-Of course, by the time I was done, it wasn't a fantasy anymore. It was more like a crime scene.)

I'd just finished writing a bit about the LABB Murder Cases, and somehow, I found myself aroused and ready to go. And, knowing what a masochist I had on my hands, and still being hyped about the prospect of murder, I took a knife, and...-

And that's all I'm saying. I won't go into sickening detail, because it was sick. So sick that it almost ended whatever he and I are. Our partnership probably should have ended... when I got him pleasure-drunk on torture and then castrated him.

He screamed, of fuck, did he scream! And he cried. And I made him watch. I filmed it and played it over and over.

He was bound in the worst way, unable to move and unable to even close his mouth due to the new spider gag I had brought into play. And, getting him hard and close to orgasm, I told him to pay close attention, and I showed him the razor, and... after slipping a rubber band around him, tight like a tourniquet, I brought the razor to his sensitive flesh, and I made an incision.

I remember him trying so hard to form words, but the gag prevented anything coherent and he choked on his own drool. His cries were nothing but anguish to my ears, but once I had started, I had no intent on stopping. -He lost a lot of blood, but I was prepared for stitching, and I had ice for numbing. When all was said and done, he still climaxed like a sick, sick pervert.

-His balls are still in a jar in my closet. Did you know that? I wonder if he knows that...

I don't know why I did it. I got caught up in something sick. But he enjoyed it, so I like to think he's sicker.

Matt, my sick, sick boy. My cohort in all things that matter. My life partner and main source of entertainment.

At least I was nice enough to let him recover before doing anything more, but... any confidence he had on topping me, it vanished after that little misadventure. A permanent submissive, he still gets off on the gorey shit. There's no point to being gentle anymore. His ass has been fucked by me more than the economy has been fucked by poorly rotated presidents.

But that's in the past. Now, I'm choking the redheaded bastard, loving the way his face changes color at the lack of oxygen.

My partner is my life... and he's shirtless and bucking wild, like an animal.

No, he's not trying to break free; he's trying to entice me to carry on. And I won't disappoint him. The only question I need to ask is... 'How fucked up is this going to be? How sick does my little boy wanna be?'

But I don't ask what he wants, and he doesn't tell me.

I remove the leash and collar when the novelty of it grows stale, and then I claw my way into his sweatpants, needing him nude so that I can see every imperfection on his skin -imperfections he and I have both caused.

Exposing his dick reveals the sad aftermath of the castration, but he doesn't complain, and I don't feel guilty. Instead of worrying about any plausible negative feelings, I focus on pleasure.

My pleasure.

His pleasure.

And, still straddling him, I strip myself bare, feeling skin on skin and groaning at the friction.

Matt doesn't make a sound -he almost never does.- His eyes are wide and his lips are parted; he's a panting mess, and we've only just begun to play.

…

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**/0_0 This was fun.../**


End file.
